


a skipped chapter in the biography of the herald of andraste

by meios



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/F, F/M, Kisses, M/M, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sera, where did you even hear about this game?” asks the Inquisitor, running a hand through her hair as the other elf leads her to the floor in front of the fireplace in her quarters, hands on her shoulders urging her to sit down.</p><p>“Places, people—dunno. But it’ll be fun, yeah? Get lucky and get your Cully-Wully—”</p><p>“Sera.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a skipped chapter in the biography of the herald of andraste

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt: "Sera makes everyone spin the bottle. Because come on. Best set-up ever.
> 
> \+ if Cassandra is terrifyingly enthusiastic about the idea  
> ++ if Cullen's forced to play, and it nearly kills him, because he's still stammering over the Inquisitor, and Dorian slips him the tongue.  
> +++ if they somehow get Solas to participate, and Sera has to kiss him. And he turns out to be the Best Kisser in Thedas, much to everyone's confusion.  
> ++++ Sarcastic!LadyHawke's there and forces Varric to play. Maybe they end up making out and then stare at each other in a dazed sort of WELL HELLO THERE way for the rest of the game. Because I will ship Varric/LadyHawke until I'm dead.  
> \+ x 76347632553 if it happens in Quizzy's quarters, because that place is a fucking palace that's five times bigger than my entire apartment, and the floor in front of the fireplace is totally what spawned this prompt.
> 
> I could probably keep adding plusses forever."
> 
> if op would like this taken down, i'll do it to it

“Sera, where did you even  _hear_  about this game?” asks the Inquisitor, running a hand through her hair as the other elf leads her to the floor in front of the fireplace in her quarters, hands on her shoulders urging her to sit down.  
  
“Places, people—dunno. But it’ll be  _fun_ , yeah? Get lucky and get your Cully-Wully—”  
  
“ _Sera_.”  
  
The woman in question only continues to make kissing noises as she disappears down the stairs, quickly returning with their friends in tow, with Flidais’  _advisors_ , of course, and Creators, how did she get Solas, of all people, to agree to this? She attempts to catch the mage’s eye, but to no avail; Dorian throws her a wink and blows a kiss when he marches up the stairs. She catches it, presses it to her chest, and a laugh bursts from him.  
  
She enjoys his laughter now. It was so sharp in the beginning.  
  
And Flidais notes how Cullen sits precisely opposite from her, thankfully devoid of his armor today, wearing a shirt that fits him well, trousers that play with the colors of the other clothing in a way that is extremely pleasing to the eye. Either Leliana’s or Vivenne’s work, she is most certain.  
  
The Iron Bull takes up the most room, of course, though Sera opts to hop on his knee and sit there, giving him a playful punch in the chest. He chuckles at her, large hand coming down on her head until she manages to bat it away, frowning now.  
  
Solas, Cole, and Varric sit opposite the Qunari and the elf, and Cole looks  _happy_ , twirling a sunflower between his thumb and index finger, watching as it spins. He looks up at Flidais after a moment and warmth floods her chest. He truly has grown: Varric had been correct in that prediction.  
  
He has been hitting things less frequently than before.  
  
Cassandra sits between Josephine and Leliana, with Vivienne sat beside Cullen, Blackwall on his other side, and though Josephine and Leliana laugh softly at a secret joke they have concocted once more, Cassandra looks relatively  _excited_. And Flidais has to bite her cheek at that, lest she face the wrath of the Seeker’s blade. Blackwall speaks with Dorian in hushed whispers, and the Tevinter is grinning, and, well, here it is:  
  
Her friends have become a family.  
  
“All right, you lot!”  
  
And then everything focuses around the empty wine bottle in the center of it all.  
  
“Rules of th’ game’s pretty simple, right?” continues Sera, her hair a bit fussed because of Bull, but her smile is that of a thief’s, a cat’s, and Flidais cannot believe that she is going along with this. “Spin the bottle, whoever it lands on, you kiss! Person who gets kissed spins next. Kisses, kisses, kisses. Long or short as you wannit—”  
  
“There  _are_  limits,” interjects Flidais, raising an eyebrow at the snort that Varric answers with. She does not respond to him, but only continues, looking back toward Sera. “Right?”  
  
“’Course. No sexy sex business on the Quizzy’s rug. So!” Sera claps her hands, beaming, and Flidais cannot help the sense of dread that befalls her. She glances at Cullen, only to meet his gaze, and though she does not blush, she feels as if she should. “Who’s first?”  
  
A pregnant pause with only the fire crackling and the wind outside on the balcony for comfort, and it seems like everyone is holding their collective breaths.  
  
“Oh, whatever, I’ll do it,” Sera says, rolling her eyes. She reaches over from her perch on Bull’s knee, and spins the bottle rather clumsily. Regardless, it does move rather quickly, taking a few seconds to slow to a stop.  
  
Cassandra.  
  
Flidais leans back some, back against her armchair. This would be a story worth writing about. She has to bite her knuckle, fearful of laughing, regardless, as the elven woman moves away from Iron Bull to squat in front of Cassandra, who resembles Red Lyrium at the moment, eyebrows raised at the suddenness of all of this.  
  
For an instant, Flidais swears she can hear her heartbeat, hammering against her ribcage like a war drum.  
  
Sera cups her face with both hands, surprisingly gentle, and kisses her without hesitation. The Inquisitor glances over to Dorian, to Varric, both of whom only grin at her before whooping; Sera draws back, licks her lips, and returns to Iron Bull’s knee, leaving an open-mouthed Cassandra in her wake.  
  
Sera must have a talent.  
  
For Cassandra quickly regains her composure, but brings her hand up to her mouth, to her lips, tracing them. The question of whether or not any of Varric’s romance novels had something like  _that_  in the text hangs in the air.  
  
Sera looks very proud of herself.  
  
“Your turn, Cassandra,” Flidais offers, and the Seeker looks up, face still rather pink, but she does spin with the force of lightning.  
  
It lands on the Inquisitor, and the laughter that follows is enough to hide the overwhelming heat that creeps up the back of the mage’s neck. She stands, proud, only pausing to take Dorian’s hand in congratulations, smirking. She kneels down in front of Cassandra, the same spot that Sera had been in only a minute or so before, and she asks, softly, “Are you okay with this?”  
  
The other woman nods, smiling some, and  _she_  is the one to lean forward, to seal their mouths together, and  _wow_. Flidais brings a hand to Cassandra’s neck, following her movements, her steps in this dance, and she can no longer hear the others.  
  
For only Cassandra’s mouth and Cassandra’s touch were real here. The blood rushing to her ears drowned her and all the easy flirting compels her, and she knows that this kiss has gone on for more than a handful of seconds like it had been with Sera, but this is nice.  
  
And then it is over, and Flidais smiles, returns to her seat without a word. Cullen is staring at her, and she decides to let him, doe eyes flicking up only as she dabs at the corners of her mouth with the tip of her index finger, only as she spins the bottle once more.  
  
Sera gives her a thumbs-up either way, and this time, the Inquisitor smiles with teeth.  
  
It does not stop at Cullen, as she had hoped, but on Varric, and the both of them laugh, though it is  _Varric_  who comes over to her, drops a lovely kiss to Flidais’ lips with the tingle of his humor a resonating aftershock. “Aren’t you the charmer?” she teases as he returns to his seat.  
  
He shrugs. “What can I say?”  
  
And he spins.  
  
Varric kisses Iron Bull like a father kisses a son, and the Iron Bull kisses Vivienne with the utmost respect, giving her the lead, one that she takes with a voracious passion. Kissing is a sport in Orlais, after all, and though Flidais has never seen the Iron Bull blush before, and probably never would, the starry expression on his face when he leaves him is something for the artists to recreate.  
  
Vivienne kisses Leliana’s cheek, the both of them smiling politely, and it is only when the bottle then lands on Josephine, that the smile on the spymaster’s face warms, and the women kiss as if they have done it a thousand times.  
  
The way that Blackwall kisses the Antivan, though, is something that Flidais will remember for ages to come. He kisses and he savors it, and she kisses like it is a fairy tale, and when they break apart, Blackwall’s gaze rests upon hers for a moment, and Josephine drops a kiss to his cheek before returning to Cassandra’s side.  
  
Blackwall kisses Dorian like it is an easy thing, and the Inquisitor is relieved to see such a thing become real. It is short and chaste, but there is no ill will. There has been no ill will in this room, and when she sleeps tonight, she wonders if the spirits in the Fade will be as warm as the hearth.  
  
She involuntarily chokes out a bubble of laughter when the bottle lands on Cullen, if only because of the look on his face—one of shock—versus the one on Dorian’s: he smiles his fake-smile, and he moves over Blackwall to curl a finger underneath Cullen’s chin, drawing him closer, like a charmer to their snake. Blackwall scoots backward, allowing Dorian to fully urge Cullen, who bends to his whim easily. Flidais hides her smirk behind her hand, the one with the Anchor, for she has seen this before.  
  
He kisses Cullen tenderly, passionately, and as the commander’s eyes flutter shut, he rests his hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and oh.  _Beautiful_  spins like a cyclone in her mind, Elvish, twirling around the very arches and bumps of the inside of her skull. Cullen seems to be lost in it, and he breathes out harshly through his nose, and she does not dare to blink lest she miss something.  
  
It is only when Dorian audibly slips in his tongue that Cullen removes his hand, his mouth, from the Tevinter’s person, but he does not flinch when said Tevinter moves to whisper in his ear, a smirk playing at his kiss-swollen lips. When he retracts, he musses Cullen’s hair, to the other’s chagrin, and caresses his moustache back into order.  
  
Cullen runs a hand through his hair, but it only worsens the situation, and Flidais smiles at that, at the way he glances up at her before he spins the bottle.  
  
He visibly deflates when it lands on Solas.  
  
And Solas, for all of his scholarly aura and aloof disposition, appears rather swiftly before the commander, thin lips crashing into a fuller pair, and  _Creators_ , this is madness. The little noise that escapes from the back of Cullen’s throat is telling, and the blush that overtakes him is enough to make Flidais worry about whether or not there is any blood left in his body.  
  
But the game continues late into the night. Solas kisses Sera and laughter erupts in the room for far too long. Cole keeps all of their thoughts, all of their secrets, close to his chest, though he brightens visibly when Flidais kisses his cheek, stating that he is happy, because she is happy.  
  
It is, however, only when  _Hawke_  steps onto the landing that everything freezes, and the ridiculousness settles in, and as Flidais stands to greet her, Hawke raises a hand to stop her, her free one pushing a lock of dark hair behind her ear as she glares at Varric. “You  _promised_  me that you would tell me about the next damn game!”  
  
“You were in  _Crestwood_ —”  
  
“You could’ve sent a bloody  _letter_ —”  
  
“What about—?”  
  
“ _You_  are the exception. Like I would miss out on kissing my trusty dwarf.” She said nothing else after that, only squeezing in beside Flidais and Solas, smirking as said dwarf spun.  
  
Later, Sera would definitely call out someone, everyone, on cheating, because it, of course, lands on Hawke, and they, of course, meet like fireballs. There is no shame between them: there are only small quips interrupting seal of their mouths, smirks and egging each other on, and Varric’s hands are on her strong arms while Hawke’s are on his hips.  
  
Flidais silently promises herself to never let sexual tension get that bad.  
  
The moment fizzles out, however, and they drift apart like inertia, staring, dazed. When Varric blindly sits beside the Champion, there is already a space there, Solas and Cole having moved without needing to be told.  
  
It takes Dorian clearing his throat and asking for someone to spin to jerk the two of them out of their thoughts, and Hawke is only lightly flushed as she declines, opting to make comments instead.  
  
Only a few more turns are taken before Sera declares herself bored, scooping up the bottle and moving, sliding down the railing of the staircase, landing with a crash. The others stand to follow her, and Flidais is the last in the fray. She watches them leave with a teasing smirk, most of them probably up for returning to the tavern, a few drinks to quell the taste of others.  
  
It is Cullen who hesitates, glancing at her, and Flidais does not say it, but she does grab his arm before he descends. She waits until the door closes, until the footsteps fade, and then she releases him, his skin hot to touch even through the linens of his shirt.  
  
“I…” she begins, attempting nonchalance, flirting, teasing, but finding it to be impossible in the temperature of the room, in the way he looks back at her with raised eyebrows, hair still messy and unkempt, like he had just woken up. She takes a breath. “I never got to kiss you, you know.”  
  
“O-oh?”  
  
“It seems like you kissed everyone but me,” she continues, shrugging a little, a crooked smile teasing the  _vallaslin_  that adorns the center of her lips. She has caught the commander staring at it in the War Room, in the same way that he is now: there is something in golden eyes, something nearly corporeal, nearly tangible. Perhaps it is want or desire or adoration or something like love. The only thing that is certain is that it is warm like he is, his body emanating it.  
  
Flidais has her back to the wall now, and she wonders aloud how she got there. Cullen is closer, and he does not speak, and she knows that it is because of the nervous stammer. But still, she tentatively rests her palm against his cheek, the scruff of his beard itchy. He leans into the touch nonetheless, calming some.  
  
“I just wondered if you thought that fair?” she finishes quietly.  
  
“Thought w-what fair?” he asks, blinking away from her mouth, from her eyes, deep green and endless.  
  
“You kissing everyone but me.”  
  
“Oh,” responds Cullen, and then he swallows, straightens a little. There is a slight blush dusting his face, but the newfound confidence here, sudden, like he had planned it for when this moment would finally come. She watches him as he takes a moment to search her face for something that she seems to be trying to find in his. “That  _is_  a problem, isn’t it?”  
  
She clears her throat. “One that should be alleviated soon, I think,” she murmurs, and his voice has gone soft again, like when they had first arrived in Skyhold—grabs her arm and promises that Haven will never happen again, and it is something that he has promised himself a thousand times before, but with different names, different faces, different times, looks at her and sees those promises broken over and over again, will  _not_  let this go, will  _not_  let her be unhappy, he deserves happiness, she deserves happiness, Maker’s breath, she deserves happiness—and the way that he crowds her, the way that his chest encompasses her in warmth, the way that his forehead rests against her for one moment before he presses their mouths together, is more than enough.  
  
If this is all a dream, Dread Wolf take her, she does not want to wake up.  
  
He kisses her with passion behind it, but does not press it against her like a blade to the throat. She winds her arms around his neck, pulling him down, closer, and for the first time in a while, she curses herself for being so short. But their contact does not falter, his hands strong against the small of her back, gathering her up and keeping her flush against him.  
  
Cullen kisses her like she is everything, like he is smoke over water, ghosting over the surface just enough to mix with it, to dip and glide and disappear. He tastes of spices that she cannot name, of words that she has never known, never spoken.  
  
There is a hand in her hair, stroking it back, and the small gasp that emits from her is enough leeway to slip his tongue into her mouth. And she has kissed many a person. She has been intimate with a few. Electricity has been in the air because of kisses, because of sex, with her before, but she has never been held like he is holding her.  
  
His thumb traces the scar over her eye.  
  
She has never been touched like he is touching her now, encouraging goosepimples to appear across her neck, across her arms, across her back. She has never been kissed like he is kissing her: so slowly that it  _hurts_. She could cry if this bubble were to burst, every emotion overwhelming, every noise and new turn they take a different set of nerves to explore.  
  
Flidais does not know how long it has been when they reluctantly part, but they are sitting on the edge of her bed, and though she does not remember when that had happened, she does not particularly care, either. They smile at each other, flushed pink and breathless, and Cullen slips his fingers through her hair, hums a little.  
  
“That was really nice,” he murmurs after a while.  
  
“It was,” agrees Flidais.  
  
He presses a kiss to her forehead, and the silence is all-surrounding, save for the one thought that appears in the back of her mind:  
  
“Cullen?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“What did Dorian say to you before?” 

**Author's Note:**

> wat u didnt c:
> 
> He whispers slowly, each word a chore, Cullen's neck sprouting tiny goosepimples as Dorian's breath tickles it. "She's crazy about you. Trust me." And then he is gone, and Cullen does not know what is up or down or any other direction anymore.


End file.
